"Go it, Pa," Abe
shouted from the fence. "Don't let that old skinflint get you down."
After a few minutes. Carter lay on his back gasping for breath.
"Nuf!" he cried, and Tom let him scramble to his feet.
Carter began brushing himself off. "It ain't fitting to fight a
neighbor," he whined, "just because of a mistake."
"Mistake nothing!" Tom snorted. "Somebody lied, and it wasn't Abe."
"I'll have a new paper made out, if you like," said Carter.
Tom looked at him with scorn. "You ain't got enough money to buy my
south field. But I'll thank you for the ten cents you owe us. Abe and I
each did a half day's work."
[Illustration]
Tom's right eye was swelling, and by the time he reached home it was
closed. The bump on the side of his head was the size of a hen's egg.
There was a long scratch down his cheek.
Sarah was kneeling before the fireplace, raking ashes over the potatoes
that she had put in to bake. She jumped up in alarm.
"What's the matter? What happened?" she asked.
"It was like Pa said," Abe told her. "Mr. Carter is a skinflint."
Sarah took Tom by the arm and made him sit down on a stool.
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